


A Mindful Minister

by bunnystealsyourcarrots



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1960's, AU, Canon-ish, Centaurs, Dark, Death, F/M, Politician Tom Riddle, Smut, Werewolf, politician au, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnystealsyourcarrots/pseuds/bunnystealsyourcarrots
Summary: If Tom Riddle intends to be the Minister of Magic, he must mind his manners, patiently listen to his constituents, and most importantly, he can't allow any opponent to outfox him.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	A Mindful Minister

“I believe that enemies of yesterday can become allies of tomorrow.”

“I believe that progress doesn’t always need to feel like a hard push.”

“I believe that if you first help us meet our goals for this fiscal year, The Ministry will then finally have ample time and energy to focus on those righteous tasks that demand change—delivering what you, the people, have asked for—and we can truly work magic within the system.” 

The wind took liberties with Tom Riddle’s hair. 

In the midst of him masterfully articulating his four-point plan for the ministry budget, a curl fluttered against his forehead. A defiant dip of soot-black annoyance, but Tom’s voice never wavered. His speech continued, smooth and dripping with charm while the fingers on one hand curled around the edge of the podium in front of him, the tightness containing his tension to his knuckles for when the next breeze hit.

A few curls tickled the nape of his neck when the wind picked up, but the Senior Undersecretary to the Minster of Magic played the part of the unruffled politician perfectly. A beat never missed until the end of his speech, when Tom turned his back and sharply inhaling, pushed a hand through his hair. 

Oh yes, everything had a set place in his world. 

Everyone had their place.

_______________________

“The Weasleys refuse to throw support behind your werewolf policy change.”

The far too perky announcement, from Tom Riddle’s waif of a secretary, sent the quill hovering in the air in front of him to floating back to his desk. The updated schematics for his next political rally, abandoned, and when Tom’s pale green stare raised to settle upon the blonde, she clasped her hands submissively behind her back. If the news of others refusing to do as he pleased triggered a clenching of her boss’s molars, Narcissa Black wasn’t keen to be the only one close enough to earn the full bite. 

No, she’d be the picture of prim and proper in a peplum skirt.

“Miss Black,” Tom sighed, setting his wand back down on his desk, “why am I not surprised to hear that those in _The Burrow_ are digging themselves under again?”

“They are nothing if not consistent,” she chirped.

“You went too far,” Tom corrected. ”They are nothing.”

The chilly condemnation sent a shiver skipping down Narcissa’s bony back, and Tom’s mouth twitched. He stretched the movement into a wry smile to show that he was only joking, that he could maintain a sense of humor even when others failed him. That they were the same, him and her. That he wasn't actively picturing crushing the entire feckless Weasley family line into the mudblood-loving dirt where they belonged. 

To her credit, Narcissa was clever enough to smile back reassuringly, and Tom lifted his wand once more. 

A stack of papers on his desk began wordlessly sorting. The pages neatly zipped through the air to gently land again, a second spell stamping Tom’s blood-colored seal onto the more popular proposals for his later signing. 

Business, as usual, carrying on as casual as can be, and with his free hand, Tom motioned for Narcissa to take a seat in front of his desk.

“For lunch, I’ll have the rare ribeye from Salzaman’s. On the way back, you might as well swing by Runcorn’s Exotic Beasts to pick up that package they owled me about this morning. It’s a bother, I know, but the box apparently requires a signature in person and can’t be legally airborne. Oh, and do mind your fingers when you pick it up.”

Narcissa nodded her head along to his casual listing. Perfectly prim and proper. “Anything else, Mr. Riddle?”

“Yes.” Tom lazily flicked his wand, and a third paper pile began self-shredding. “Did our genial ginger friends at The Burrow happen to mention why they’re opposed to the cessation of full moon mandatory lock-ups at the Ministry? I pegged the Weasley’s for the soft-hearted sort who were all for creature rights.”

“They live farther out in the countryside—”

“Oh pssh,” Tom cut her off, sensing where this was going, and his eyes rolled, “that doesn’t mean that a whole pack of rabid werewolves is suddenly going to descend upon Ottery St. Catchpole to ravage everyone in sight during the next full moon.”

“It might, if the creatures don’t self-isolate as promised.”

“It’s in their best interest to behave,” Tom gently chided, voice low and calming as if these were her opinions that they were debating. “Why not allow the creatures to honor their word after years of subjecting them to degrading minding from the Ministry? Use the bloody carrot instead of the stick this time. After all, if being a member of civilized society does depend on us occasionally assuming the best in others unlike us, I reckon that we at least owe them a chance to look after themselves and let the packs thin out maladjusted rebels from the group if needed.”

As Narcissa hated to disappoint him again, she chewed over what he said and gnawed on her lower lip for a beat. “I’m afraid that it doesn’t sound like the Weasley’s are willing to take the risk of a pack reacting too slowly.”

“Ah,” Tom's wand swished, and all his formerly in motion pages hung still in the air. “So they favor the certain oppression of many for the possible comfort to _them_.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened. “It sounds selfishly crude when you put it like that.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Tom chuckled. “It’s almost as if the person who wrote the bill is passionate about the subject.”

Narcissa stammered, “R-Right. Yeah, sorry.”

In Narcissa’s five months of service under Tom Riddle, he'd never once openly demeaned her. He didn't call her doll or sugar. He didn't flick a glance towards her bosom before meeting her eyes. 

No, instead, her boss made a point of asking a, fresh-out-of-Hogwarts Narcissa Black, her opinions on his pet projects; projects that could live or die based on public perception—he picked her brain as if they were equals. 

When all she'd ever expected for her first Ministry job was to push pencils and set appointments, she'd frequently find herself engaged in discussions across the desk from a dashingly magnetic man who nodded along thoughtfully to her suggestions. He inquired about her parent's health after a long weekend, ordered her favorite flowers to her desk after she'd shown up with puffy eyes thanks to another late-night row with her hot-headed beau- as if her soppy emotions didn't slow down her productivity. 

Oh, yes, in a multitude of ways, Tom Riddle proved to be the ideal boss, but that didn’t stop Narcissa from occasionally feeling downright low and silly around him. 

And who could blame her when he could bury her good mood with a dismissive eyebrow raise.

A click of his tongue against his straight teeth somehow digging into her confidence.

A cold look from him hardly worth shivering in her heels, when other secretaries in her Ministry lunch group had shared truly horrific stories about their ego-emboldened bosses, but Tom could unsettle Narcissa without furiously throwing his name placard against the wall. 

Because unlike many of the other department heads, Tom Riddle always conducted himself with utmost professionalism. 

He might sneer or scowl, but he never ranted or raged, even during those dreaded Monday meetings with the Minister of Magic, where Narcissa sometimes noticed Tom's body almost humming with hostility through the closed glass door. A palpable sense of unleashed anger at the world simmering right below the surface of his finely-pressed robes. His heel restlessly tapping against the floor, but he didn't curse or throw curses when his superior overruled his points. 

No, Tom picked his battles. He’d lean back in his chair. His composure kept as the Minister barked his head off. His superior’s jowls shaking, energy burning out at a furious speed after they’d disagreed again, but Tom would always wear out Minster Orlo's blustering by refusing to raise his voice until his boss eventually calmed down enough to match Tom’s suitable volume.

To be sure, there wasn’t a person alive who’d give the girl who’d failed Divination at school any points for making prophecies, but Narcissa had a sense that, given the opportunity, Tom Riddle would easily rip someone apart with the right cutting remark. 

Narcissa could almost picture his brilliantly white teeth sinking into the task when he was finally provoked past his limit, and so she tread carefully around the sleeping snake in the grass. 

“It’s splendid what you’ve accomplished so far, Sir.” 

Tom shrugged, his pages continuing on with their work again. “Drumming up votes is always easy when the policies you push for have a foundation of vision and actually make sense, Miss Black. And, fortunately for common sense winning the day, I’ve already confirmed that we have enough affirmative votes to pass my work, regardless of whatever any Weasley wants.” He leaned back in his chair, picked off an offending piece of lint from his robes.” It’s a done deal. So, they can go on and remain squeamish if they choose because a cowering man never changed anything.“

“That’s the beauty of democracy, I guess.”

A tight smile spread Tom’s lips. “Yes, and who doesn’t love that.”

_______________________

As the heir apparent to the Minister of Magic, Tom Riddle had to be mindful of his public reactions. If he felt miffed or tired, he still had to succeed in appearing like a model citizen when strolling around Diagon Alley. 

On any given afternoon, you’d catch him tipping his chin in acknowledgment to all those he passed. A projection of confidence radiating from him even on an off day. That reliable politician grin of his meant to inspire other wizards to remember him as a stabilizing presence in the government, and judging by their friendly nods back, he never seemed too flawless for them to distrust. 

After all, “the people” desired someone in power like them- not better- and far be it from Tom Riddle to deny them that silly illusion.

So, he wore smart black-rimmed glasses when a spell existed for twenty-twenty vision.

He hid his enviable physique beneath classic robe designs, never-too-tight trousers, sensibly polished loafers, and he requested his black hair clipped neatly on the sides with a modest dab of pomade slightly slicking the top back.

He smoked French cigarettes, but only in private.

He hummed with interest when others droned on endlessly in the Wizengamot.

He held the door for witches with crying babies and smiled understandably.

And most importantly, whenever someone had the nerve to lie to his face, Tom didn't embarrass the wizard by making a fist. He didn't waste his breath on threats. As a man who minded his manners, Tom would simply let the months roll by, before calling out their name during their walk back home alone one night, and after they’d glanced over their shoulder to meet his gentlemanly stare, he’d hiss out an Avada Kedavra.

Ah yes, Tom Riddle certainly was a man of the people, who hated people.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge massive thank you to Weestarmeggie for putting her beta peepers on my page, and I hope y'all enjoyed this first chapter!
> 
> -Bunny


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